Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

  “Picante?”

  This had to be some sort of challenge. Eat this salsa picante, which I also sell as drain cleaner, and I’ll know you to be a man, muy macho. He smiled at the surly Ralph, shaking his head in mock dismay. “No thanks, just the salsa verde.” He flattened the vowels, giving them a nice midwestern “I learned my Spanish in school” sound.

  Ralph nodded, his face closed off. Frank knew Ralph now regarded him as an ersatz Mexican. Tough. Frank reclaimed his plate, the burrito swimming in green sauce. He was very, very hungry. Before anyone could speak, he had forked a bite dripping with sauce into his mouth. God, it was delicious. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Really good, Jan. Really, really good.”

  Ralph’s frown softened.

  Linda eyed Frank curiously. He suddenly felt much better. Jan suggested that they adjourn to a dilapidated wooden picnic table huddled under the sporadic shade of some tamarisk trees. Linda and Frank sat in uneasy silence while Jan trundled off to her car.

  Actually, it was Frank who felt uneasy. Linda seemed perfectly relaxed watching Jan’s progress across the asphalt. She leaned forward, her arms resting lightly on the table. She was dressed for the desert in tan chinos and a long-sleeved blue shirt, her face shaded by a straw hat, eyes hidden by oversize sunglasses. She had to be aware that he was looking at her, yet she seemed remarkably comfortable despite his scrutiny.

  It was the high heat of early afternoon, and Frank longed for a beer. That first beer of the day was becoming increasingly important. He’d have to cut back, but not right now. As Jan approached the table, Frank could see she carried a small Playmate cooler. His spirits rose. She plunked the cooler on the table and produced three Coronas, ice still clinging to the glass bottles.

  “Thought we could use a beer to wash down the burritos. Damn, forgot the church key.”

  “That’s okay. Use mine.” Linda produced a Swiss army knife from the side pocket of a large canvas and leather purse resting beside her on the bench.

  Frank tipped his up. There was nothing like that first swallow of cold beer after an evening of a bit too much. Right now, it seemed like it had been wrung from the hand of God. He sighed with satisfaction. He felt his whole being begin to relax. He was suddenly aware that he, too, was being observed. There was that slight smile of amusement on Linda’s face.

  “Tastes good, huh? Especially the morning after.” Linda grinned.

  Was she mocking him? Probably. Well that was okay, too.

  Jan pushed a wispy end of gray hair away from her face. “Linda’s interested in Desert bighorns, Frank, and nobody knows more about them than you do. So I’m afraid I trapped you. She told me that you hadn’t returned her calls, that she had been referred to your supervisor. So I told her I’d try to set up an introduction. I’m afraid it was my idea, not Linda’s. So anyway, here we are.”

  Frank took a swallow of his beer, then turned to Linda. He waited, making his face blank, uninterested. He wasn’t going to be the first to talk.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” Linda met his gaze. “This feels like an imposition.” She started to rise. “I’ll call you at your office.”

  This wasn’t the way he wanted it to go. “Wait a minute.” He gestured toward the table. “You haven’t finished your beer.” He gave her his best Flynn grin. She stopped and peered at him from over the top of her sunglasses, her dark eyes probing him.

  He scrambled to recover. “Look, I admit I don’t particularly like talking to reporters. What’s more important, the district ranger, Dave Meecham, prefers to handle the press, but we’re here now.” He waited for a response. She stood by the table, her dark eyes searching his face. Frank liked the way she watched him without embarrassment or hostility. She took off the hat and pushed her hair, damp with perspiration, away from her face, tucking it behind her ears.

  “Okay.” Linda sat back down, the hat pushed to the back of her head. “First of all, I’m not here as a reporter for the Courier. The dead body you found in the Panamints is yesterday’s news. I’m writing an article about Desert bighorns for Western Living. They do vacation stuff—where to stay, what to see, where to eat, that sort of thing. They also have a feature called Outback. It takes a look at the rare and unusual, things most people will probably never see, or will probably never want to see. But it’s one of their most popular features. Lots of letters.

  “I’ve read all sorts of stuff about bighorns, but to tell you the truth, I’ve never seen one. I didn’t know about all this poaching and petroglyph stuff until the corpse you found made news. I covered the story for the Courier.” Linda smiled at Jan. “When I talked with Jan about what I was doing, she said I ought to talk to you.” She sighed. “Is there another beer in there?” She nodded at the cooler. When Jan handed her a beer, Linda took the icy bottle and rubbed it across her forehead.

  “Well, I figured trying to contact you was probably a dead end, unless I tackled you in the parking lot over at BLM,” she said. “So, Jan told me about you coming to her class. Now you know what I want to know and why I want to know it.” She gave him a slight smile. “There’s no hidden agenda. I just want to know about the sheep.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I get to acting like the sheep are my personal responsibility. They’re not, though. But they’re wonderful animals. I hate to see them harmed.”

  Linda’s face was very serious. “I know. I could tell from your lecture. I liked the way you tied what we do now to the people who lived here first, especially about how they were like us, just trying to live but making mistakes in the process. I’d never felt connected to any of that before. It was a really good lecture.”

  He smiled, and fished out the last beer and opened it for Jan. She was beaming good-naturedly, evidently pleased that the tension had dissipated.

  “I guess you know that the BLM watches over the land, not the animals. The sheep belong to the state of California, so wildlife management is the responsibility of Fish and Game. But they’re understaffed, just like we are, so we help each other out.” He felt like he was doing one of his talks to tourists by the campfire. “Do you need to know all this stuff?”

  Linda looked up from the notebook she had taken out of her canvas purse. “Actually, I’ve looked up most of what you’ve been telling me, but it’s good to know how you feel about it, how it works in practice.”

  “Well, we work together as much as possible. Of course, it’s personal. Some agents and some agencies work well together, some not. But on the whole, we cooperate.” He watched her writing in her notebook. He was glad she wasn’t using a tape recorder. Recorded conversations had a way of reminding him he was dispensing words.

  “Do the dominant rams lead the flock?” she asked.

  Frank shook his head. “Nope, usually it’s the oldest female with the largest number of descendants. The rams hang out together until fall—mating season. Then they snort and cough, run around stiff-legged, and butt heads.”

  Linda pushed her sunglasses back on her nose. She was smiling.

  “Yeah.” Frank grinned. “I know, it sounds familiar. Only the sheep get to take a break, since rutting season comes only once a year.” He felt his face flush. He was grateful for his dark skin. Where the hell had that come from? Just the image he wanted to convey, a macho cop with a perpetual woody. He lifted his sunglasses from their resting place in his shirt and put them on.

  “How many desert bighorns are left?”

  “Altogether, or here in the Mojave?” He was glad they were on safer ground now. He wasn’t used to feeling flustered.

  “When you say ‘altogether,’ where do you mean?”

  “North America, which means the United States and Mexico. The sheep live in the deserts of the Southwest.”

  “Okay.” She turned to a fresh page in her notebook. “How many in North America?”

  “I wish I could give you a solid number, but I can’t. They’re hard to count, and they live over a wide range, thousands of
square miles. Maybe a total population of eighteen to twenty thousand.”

  “How many in Mexico?”

  He looked at his hands resting on the weathered wood. “Six to eight thousand, but they’re on their way out.”

  “Why’s that?” Her shirt had developed wet patches of sweat under her arms. He watched as perspiration beaded on her face and made little rivulets of moisture down her cheeks.

  “In Mexico, they don’t do too well at managing animal populations. The fees for acting as an illegal guide, the mordida for officials to look the other way, it’s too much temptation. Now that Baja is more accessible, you can probably kiss the sheep there good-bye. In another ten years at most, finding bighorns in Baja will be a rare occurrence.”

  “And in the States?”

  “There might be ten to twelve thousand, scattered throughout the deserts, mainly in Arizona, California, and Nevada.”

  “And in the Mojave Desert?”

  “That depends on whose Mojave Desert. If you define the desert by flora and fauna, it lies in California, Nevada, and Arizona. But some of the sheep live in the Colorado and Sonoran deserts, which stretch into California from Mexico. If you’re near Joshua trees, you’re in the Mojave Desert. That’s a good rule of thumb.”

  “So how many sheep are in the Mojave?”

  “The census figures are by state, so we’ll do a guesstimate. If we leave Arizona and Nevada out of it, there might be three thousand sheep in about a hundred thousand square miles of desert, including Death Valley and the Panamints.”

  “That’s one sheep for every thirty-three square miles.”

  Frank nodded. “Or one sheep for every twenty-one thousand or so acres.”

  Linda frowned. “No wonder I’ve never seen one.”

  Jan gave a short laugh. “I think Frank makes it all up just to have an excuse to go hiking. Bill Pearson’s the only other person who claims to have close encounters of the third kind, and he’s a biologist, so that makes him suspect.”

  “Come on, Jan, give me a break. Pearson knows when and where to look. I’ll be damned if I could tell a hand ax from a rock with a sharp edge until you showed me what to look for.” Jan looked somewhat mollified. “Besides, after you’ve watched bighorns for a while, you get to know where and when they’re going to show up. They have favorite spots.”

  Linda fiddled with her pencil. “I suppose you know where they hang out, don’t you?”

  This was going a little better. Somewhere, he had reasserted himself. “Yeah, the flock in the Panamints are on the west side of Telescope Peak, coming down to the springs in Wildrose and Surprise canyons.”

  Linda reached into her pants pocket and produced a red kerchief. She set her sunglasses on the table and wiped the perspiration from her face and neck. “How would you like to take me up there and show me some bighorns firsthand?” Her smile was both challenging and disconcerting.

  Somehow, Frank felt he had been sandbagged, that the whole conversation had been leading up to this. He glanced over at Jan, who seemed to be studying Ralph’s whitewashed cubicle with unwarranted interest. He regarded Linda with care. Actually, he knew he wanted to show this woman the things that lifted his heart. She seemed physically fit, but that could be deceiving. He hesitated for a moment and then found himself nodding.

  “Okay, I was planning on going into the Panamints this week. How about Friday? I’ve got some time off.”

  Her face lit up. “Great. That’d be just great. I was really afraid you’d say no.”

  Jan grinned. “Now we’ll find out if Frank has been sitting around in his caboose chewing the sacred datura or he’s actually been among the bighorn sheep.”

  “You live in a caboose?” Linda asked.

  “Yeah, well, that’s another story. We’ll need an early start. Say about four-thirty.”

  “Four-thirty in the morning!” A frown creased her forehead.

  “That’s the way to beat the heat. Tell me how to get to your place and I’ll pick you up.”

  “It’s too far out of the way. Why don’t we meet in the college parking lot?”

  He was disappointed. “Okay, suit yourself. I just thought it would be, uh, easier.”

  “I live in Red Mountain. Do you know where the Joshua Tree Athletic Club is?” Frank nodded. “Well, that’s my dad’s place. I’ll meet you out front at five with coffee and sandwiches. How’s that sound?”

  Jack Collins was her dad? Things were getting off to a tangled start. “Great.” He caught Jan in an unguarded smirk. “Is this okay with you, Jan? I don’t want to spoil your plans.”

  “No, no, you can invite me over to that caboose of yours, and we’ll have a beer, okay?”

  She glanced at her watch, suddenly aware of the time. “I’ve got to get back. Strategic Planning Committee. Sounds like we should be meeting with the brass at China Lake, but it’s part of the drill. We churn out a five-year plan every year.” Jan and Linda rose. As Linda moved off toward the car, Jan turned and winked at Frank. He didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed.

  6

  Mitch Cooper had called Frank and said to meet him at 4:00 P.M., but Frank had come early so that he could look the place over and find somewhere to sit that had a degree of privacy. The privacy turned out to be a nonconsideration. The afternoon temperature was still over a hundred, and the few customers lounging about weren’t there for the food. They sat around the tiny dance floor, resting in the air-conditioned darkness and waited for the cloaking din of music to mask the poverty of conversation and usher in the rituals of the one-night stand. Frank felt jaded. They were just people out to meet one another, after all. His exclusion from the premating activities had been his choice.

  He especially didn’t like ersatz Mexican restaurants with cute names like Maria’s Casita, or the bland food swimming in tasteless sauce served up by chirpy waitresses. These unfortunates were fitted out in short skirts and low-cut peasant blouses trimmed with matching ribbon. Many people seemed to love the insincere familiarity of such places, but Frank was put off by the frothy margaritas, the colorful plates of tasteless food, the commercial glimpses of fleshy bosoms, and, most especially, the dead warmth of purchased perkiness.

  He shook his head. He had no business making judgments, casting the first stone, as his mother would’ve reminded him. But he preferred getting to know people gradually. Courtships required time. He liked the idea of courtship, of the sweet tension of pursuit. The image of a mischievous grin and hazel eyes briefly formed in his mind’s eye. He smiled back, letting himself picture the easy way Linda Reyes had teased him. He had found it annoying that she seemed to sense his discomfort, yet he had agreed to help her with her story about sheep poaching, even agreed to take her into Surprise Canyon, surprising himself in the process.

  A young Mexican girl, her thin body poking out from a billowing blouse and skirt, interrupted his reverie. She launched unenthusiastically into a canned spiel.

  “Hi, my name is Lupe, and I’m going to be your server this evening.”

  As she paused for breath, Frank interrupted. “Hola, Lupe. Me llamo Francisco y quisiera cerveza solamente. And Lupe, I will be here for a while. I am waiting for a friend, a tall man with brown hair, probably tied back. Show him out here if you see him, okay? And while I’m waiting, make that beer a Corona, por favor.”

  She smiled shyly. “Sí. ¿Nada más?” she asked, making sure there was nothing more he wanted.

  “Nada más, gracias.” Frank watched her retreat across the tiled patio, carried away on legs made sticklike by the ridiculous costume. He wanted to tell her to find another place to work. When he got the beer, it was cold, but the glass was warm, another message from indifferent management. Frank muttered a soft “Gracias” and drank from the bottle, his thoughts on Mitch Cooper.

  If Cooper could help him identify the corpse, he would be much closer to discovering what had happened in Surprise Canyon. More than ever he was convinced that there had been a second person at th
e scene of the sheep killing by the spring. And if that were the case, it was very likely that the dead man had been deliberately abandoned, left without shoes or sufficient water to die of dehydration, a rapid process in the intense heat of the Mojave. A deliberate and thoughtful sort of murder.

  Frank looked and saw Mitch Cooper and the blond girl, whom Mitch had introduced as Shawna, standing by the entrance to the patio. Lupe was pointing over to the table where Frank sat. He rose to greet them. They were holding hands, as if for reassurance. It made him remember his copness, the weight of the uniform.

  “Mitch. Shawna.” Frank smiled and thrust out his hand. “Good to see you again. How about something to drink? Beer, margarita?”

  “Beer for me.” Mitch glanced over at Shawna.

  “Ice tea, please.” She smiled a sort of dreamy, beatific smile.

  He ordered the beer and iced tea, then waited until they were served to begin asking questions. In the meantime, Mitch asked Frank if it was hot enough for him. Probably the most frequently asked question in the Mojave. Frank replied that the heat didn’t bother him much. In fact, he liked the heat, enjoyed the hot, dry stillness of the day, followed by the cool night, when the living things of the desert came out to hunt and make love. The desert had nightlife.

  There was a lull in the conversation as the small talk petered out. When the drinks came, Frank said, “So, Mitch, what can you tell me about the man who died in the desert?” He kept his voice matter-of-fact, his expression neutral.

  Mitch and Shawna exchanged glances.

  “Well, before I changed—let the Lord into my life—I used to run with this motorcycle club, the Sidewinders.” Mitch looked from Frank back to Shawna. She nodded encouragement.

  “The Sidewinders? That’s a club I’ve never heard of.”

  “It’s a small club. There were never more than ten or twelve of us, guys who went on the rides and stuff.” He took a deep breath. “Well, we all had tattoos like the guy you found.” He laid his forearm on the table, revealing a crudely done death’s head, the lines of ink uneven, thick, and blurred. The figure of the skull itself was disproportionate, the mouth too large for the eyeless sockets. Its uniqueness lay in the crudity of its rendering—a true primitive, a totem meant to ward off, to frighten.